Got Your Six
by oncomingcompanion
Summary: AryaxGendry After the death of his deadbeat father, Gendry struggles to make ends meet. The only way for him to pay for college is to join the military, but when he meets Arya Stark, her unconventional outlook on life forces him to question whether the army is his only option left. (High School AU, Military AU)
1. Prologue

_We had a deal, he and I,_  
_of no bullshit between us._  
_If one of us got wounded,_  
_the other wouldn't lie._  
_So when he got hit_  
_and he asked me,_  
_"How's my leg?"_  
_I looked him straight in the eye_  
_and told him, "It's fine."_  
_It looked fine to me,_  
_laying over there,_  
_looked as good as new._  
_No Lie, GI._

David Connolly

* * *

I swore to my father that I wouldn't enlist.

Robert Baratheon was a fat, drunken asshole who spends most his time sitting on the couch I paid for with my money. He wasn't good for anything, except for beer, and on a good day maybe some takeout. The coffee table, if you could call it that, was usually littered with a pile of unpaid bills. From the outside, no one would have guessed that we were living off microwave dinners and that the only bill Robert ever paid was the electric and the cable. No hot water, no AC.

The car sat in the driveway, the only thing of value my father hadn't tried to sell on ebay. It belonged to his father, a 1955 Ford Thunderbird that I put gas into because my father is unemployed. The keys were hidden somewhere he'd never find them. Mostly because gas is fucking expensive and I could barely afford to get myself to school and back. But also because I was afraid he'd get it in his head to go visit some of his old army buddies in New York, take the keys with a BAC of .16, and wind up in an accident before he got five miles from the house.

I used to think maybe he'd die that way. He almost had before. Usually it was alcohol poisoning, but there was a close call with an OD once. I was always the one to find him, wallowing in his own vomit or passed out, lips turning blue. I was the one who spends long nights in hospital waiting rooms, cramming for AP Lit tests in between filling out health insurance paperwork and wondering if this would be the time he succeeded in offing himself.

But it wasn't anything like that. It was hepatocellular carcinoma, which is just a really long word for liver cancer. You'd think that with a bunch of haywire cells trying to shoot your liver, you wouldn't try to help them along with drinking, but Robert drank pretty much up until the end. When he realized that the doctors intended to keep him in the hospital and prohibit his drinking, he checked himself out to die slowly and probably painfully at home. But he had his booze, and his painkillers.

Eventually I hid the painkillers with the keys, afraid that he'd stop breathing. He got desperate towards the end, when the pain got really bad. Two days before he died, he was going through my room trying to find the little, white oxycodone pills. He should have known better. I would never be so stupid as to hide them in my room.

Instead, he found a flyer I'd taken without thinking from an army guy at the college fair, tucked away half-forgotten under my SAT prep book. They came to recruit the seniors, mostly, so I wasn't sure why I'd kept it. But that eight by eleven piece of paper kept nagging at the back of my mind. I knew I wouldn't be able to afford college, and the more I thought about it, the more it seemed like the most brilliant solution for getting out of King's Landing. And god knows I wanted out.

When I came home from work, dropping my backpack in the doorway, I immediately knew something was wrong. My father sat on the couch, staring blankly at me, a piece of paper clutched in his thick fist, and I saw a quiet kind of defeat in his black, beady eyes. "The hell is this, boy?"

I met his eyes with my own. People constantly told me much I looked like him, and I saw it in the old photos they had on display at the high school. But my eyes were my mother's, a bright, steely blue, and sometimes I thought that small difference was the only thing that kept me sane. Her eyes and her name were the only reminders that I was not a carbon copy of my father. "What does it look like?"

It took a minute for him to absorb the fact that after years of him screaming and ranting about the horrors of war that I would even bring this kind of treacherous blasphemy into the house. When he finally understood, he reached out his hand to me, paper clenched in his fist. I took it, smoothed it out, throat tight.

"Read it." His voice was deep, deadly. And for a moment, I heard in it the soldier. The man who killed people. The man who watched people die in front of him. The man who was welcomed home to King's Landing like a hero, their own personal suburban hero returned from Kuwait unscathed by the horrors of war. They'd seen the burning oil wells on their television, red flames bursting up from the ground and black smoke curling up towards coalition fighter jets…but he was Robert Baratheon, local quarterback-turned-soldier, back from the dead with the same determined gleam in his eye and cocky grin on his face as always.

I read the flyer, the whole damn thing, voice shaking the whole time. He listened to the words, laughed obscenely when I got to the part about the army subsidizing my education. He'd always thought I was absurd for even caring about school, and by the time I finished my nails had left little half-moon marks where they'd dug into my palms, hands shaking with anger and repressed loathing for him.

I heard his breathing, heavy and labored. He was drunk, eyes wild as his quiet words came out hot on my face: "If you think that you can just run off to war, play it like a video game and get quick cash for college… if you think that everything's gonna just be waiting here for you when you get back, boy, you've got another thing coming. There's no job, no girl, no friends waiting for you. You enlist in the army…you either win, or you die. And you best pray to God you die out there, because this life…this is where hell really is."

Then he wasn't there with me anymore, lost inside his mind, rambling on about some Iraqi kid caught in the line of fire…he focused on that kid a lot when he lost it. Or maybe there's more than one kid, I didn't know. But I knew he was distraught, trying to get me to promise that I wouldn't do the things he did. He made promises of his own: that he'd pull himself together, go back to the hospital, get treatment. That we wouldn't be so dirt poor, and that he'd stop drinking.

"Okay, dad," I said, even though I knew his promises were bullshit. "I won't enlist. It's just a dumb flyer, okay?"

"Promise me," he said heavily, eyes dark and heavy. "Gendry, promise…"

"Yeah. Yeah, I promise."

But the thing is, he's dead now, so that promise is pretty much shot to hell.

* * *

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	2. Chapter 1: Vault of Stars

I'm a stickler for the rules. Everyone else on the bus is standing already, grabbing smaller luggage from the overhead storage and stretching their legs. My seatbelt remains firmly fastened, per the request of the driver, until the bus comes to a complete stop in the terminal.

The girl next to me shoots me an annoyed look, her flawless makeup untouched by a full day and a half on a bus. She shakes her red hair out from its ponytail, checking her gold Michael Kors watch that is probably worth more than the entire contents of my bank account. She hasn't said a word to me since I sat down next to her in the aisle seat.

"Finally," she huffs when I stand up, pushing past me into the aisle and grabbing a bag from the overhead with a brand name that is way too recognizable for a girl that just paid thirty-five dollars to stay up all night on a bus from Colorado to New York. The hell is a girl like that doing on a crummy cross-country bus anyway? I had this seat all to myself until she decided to plop her ass down and giggle profusely with the girls in the seat behind us, chatting about Ian Somerwhatsit and how adorable his twitter selfies with his cat are and can you even believe he and Nina broke up?

But I also overhear that they are members of a school community service team, rebuilding houses destroyed by a tornado in Greeley, so I can't hate them too much.

She's rude, I'm judgmental. We all have our issues.

But my most pressing issue is that I don't know where I'm going. Grand Central terminal is impossible to navigate, and I thank God that I have two hours before my connecting bus gets here. I have to ask four people before I find the right place, and then I double back, grabbing the cheapest coffee I can find and a disappointing terminal sandwich. I devour the sandwich quickly, the first food I've had since leaving King's Landing, but afterwards I walk slowly through the main concourse with my coffee in hand.

I've never been to New York, and I probably won't ever make it here again. But I suppose, if I could only see one place in the city, Grand Central terminal isn't that much of a let down. Light doesn't filter in through the window the way you see in pictures; the surrounding buildings must be much taller than the ones that existed when the terminal was originally built, blocking out the sun. But the ceiling is impressively high, a fantastic light blue background scattered with Greek constellations. I recognize a few of them: Pegasus, wings protruding from his back, and Orion, club lifted above his head.

I must be staring, because a voice interrupts my stargazing.

"It's backwards, you know."

I jerk out of my reverie, head snapping forward to finding a girl staring at me with wide, gray eyes. Her dark hair is cut choppily, falling just below her chin, and she is quiet as a cat.

"Sorry, didn't mean to scare you."

"No, that's okay," I tell her, even though my heart is pounding against my ribcage and my throat has gone dry. "What is?"

"The ceiling," she continues, her voice light, but enforced with a quiet self-confidence. I pick up a faint accent, telling me that she's not an American. British, probably. "All the constellations are backwards. But they won't admit it."

Instead of looking back up at the ceiling, my eyes are fixed on her. My eyes roam over her dark jeans, classic boots, white t-shirt and brown leather jacket…simple, low-maintenance. She can't be more than fifteen or sixteen, but she looks older. "Who won't?" I ask her.

"The Vanderbilt family," she says. "They built this place, and when they found out that the ceiling was painted in reverse, they tried to say that it was because it showed God's view of the sky."

"You a tour guide or something?" Every word I say sounds stupid in my head, and I resolve to let her talk as much as possible to avoid hearing myself speak.

"No," she says, shrugging. "Just like a good story. I'm Arya, by the way."

"I'm-"

Her phone rings. "Just a sec. Hey," she answers brightly. "Where are you? Robb and I have been trying to find you for ages…Yeah, I know where that is…okay, I'll be right there."

She hangs up her phone and looks at me. Under her inquisitive gaze, I am suddenly very aware that I'm wearing ripped jeans and beaten-up converse shoes, and that my hair is messy from sleeping on a bus. I know I look like crap. She is perfect, and suddenly my throat is dry for an entirely different reason.

"Well," she says, finally, trying to break the growing silence. "That's my sister. I should probably..."

"Yeah," I say, almost unable to speak at all.

"See you, then."

But I'm a realist, completely unable to lie about the statistical likelihood of us ever seeing each other again, so I instead I say, "It was nice to meet you."

"You too."

* * *

I spend the bus ride to Winterfell feeling as though I should have said something different to her, something less boring, something that might have made her remember me. The world outside passes by in a melancholy blur of color: the red and burnt orange of autumn leaves, the silver frost on the still-green grass, the steely gray-blue sky all whisper the same thing. Winter is coming.

I pull a worn anthology of John Keats poems that I've read about a hundred times out of my backpack, eyes skimming the words but not really registering them as the bus makes it's way north on Route 9. Unlike the first bus, this one is quiet, mostly old people and tired professionals getting out of the city for the weekend. Most of them get off at the early stops, leaving only myself and few other scattered passengers.

Winterfell is just about as far north as you can go without hitting Canada, and it's notorious for its harsh winters. It gets colder there long before the rest of the state, and your fingers don't properly thaw out until May. I think of my Ford back in King's Landing, about how it would've been useful to have its warm- if ancient and noisy- heater come December. But Cersei wouldn't allow it, insisting that "the car" will be perfectly fine in Jack Kennedy's garage until I graduate.

"I'll take care of her for you, kid," Kennedy had said gruffly, and I believe him. "Won't charge you to park her, neither." Jack is a good guy, and I'd spent too many evenings in his auto shop for him not to treat her right. Besides, I'll notice if he puts so much as a scratch on her.

But the prospect of suffering through the twenty minute ride to school with my half-brother Joffrey Lannister is daunting, mostly because I don't trust myself not to shove his head against the windshield. And Cersei would throw me out of her house if I so much as disturbed a hair on that kid's golden head.

I don't want to think about it. I don't want to think about their perfect house on Casterly Drive. Don't want to think about how they'd all feigned sadness at my father's funeral, and how I didn't even bother. Don't want to think about their 2.5 WPF life, the life I might have had if my father hadn't been so damn messed up inside.

So I throw myself back into Keats, seriously this time, until the autumn vision outside of my window is mirrored by the words inside of my head.

* * *

It's not Cersei that picks me up, but her twin brother, Jaime. He's a professional tennis player, with a house almost as big as Cersei's and the same golden hair as the rest of them. Joffrey calls him Uncle Jaime, but I prefer not to talk to him at all, which makes the drive from the local bus station to Casterly almost unbearable.

He expresses his deepest sympathies that my father is dead, but I know that's not true. He hated Robert almost as much as Cersei did, and neither of them have any love for me. I am the product of Robert's post-war alcoholic binging, his reckless screwing around with other women. My real mom died when I was very young, too young to remember her, and Cersei wasn't much of a replacement.

Oh, she and Robert had tried to make it work, for a while. She had been pregnant with Joffrey and determined to keep up public appearances. And maybe if I had never been born, she might have been able to forget about my father's infidelity. But I was a constant reminder of his string of one night stands with local girls he met in bars, girls who worshipped his medals and his uniform. Cersei could never explain away Robert's bastard kid to the women in the DAR, and her strangely co-dependent brother seemed to take my father's lack of sexual inhibition as a personal slight.

She'd divorced Robert, stripped him of any money he hand, and moved with Joffrey back to her childhood home on Casterly Drive. I know not to count on her for anything, except for perhaps the roof she's putting over my head, and even that is only a product of her own self-interest.

"When's the last time you've been to Winterfell?" Jaime asks me. He's trying to be civil, and I suppose I should return the favor.

"I was seven. Joffrey was in the hospital."

"Oh, yes…concussion wasn't it?"

"Yeah, I think so," I say, even though I can't remember.

"You'll like it here," Jaime tells me. "It's not as big as King's Landing. Quiet community, good people. Plenty of local intrigue to keep you entertained-"

I want to say that he and I have different definitions of entertainment, but I bite my tongue. It won't help me to piss off Cersei's brother ten minutes after arriving in Winterfell.

"-and once we get the rest of your stuff moved in, I'm sure you'll feel right at home."

"This is the rest of my stuff," I tell him bluntly.

I see a flicker of uncertainty as his eyes unconsciously find the rear view mirror, looking into the reflection of the the back seat to find my solitary black bag.

"Ah," he says. "Well, we'll still have to pick you up some new clothes for Winterfell High. Uniforms only, you know."

"Oh, I know. I just I thought I'd be at Septon's."

Jaime laughs as if genuinely surprised. "Don't be ridiculous, we couldn't possibly send you to _public _school."

There's a moment of terse silence. I look out the window, gritting my teeth, refusing to let him make me feel inadequate because I've never so much as set foot in a private school.

"And perhaps…uh, perhaps we'll also pick up a few things for recreational use."

He's trying to be delicate, but I've had enough, biting out my next words. "I can buy my own clothes."

"No, no," Jaime insists, clear blue eyes going wide. "We can't have that. You're a part of the family now."

But I know his statement is not so much of an expression of familiarity as it is a warning not to stain the Lannister reputation.

* * *

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	3. Chapter 2: Homeless

"What was he like?" Sansa whispers conspiratorially.

"Attractive," I say, without thinking.

"Arya Catelyn Stark."

"Shut up."

"Details."

"Really attractive?" I offer.

"Like Joffrey?"

"No. Forget Joffrey. This guy was the complete opposite of Joffrey."

"And this is somehow attractive?" she asks skeptically.

"Yes," I say firmly.

"I literally do not understand what you are saying to me."

"You wouldn't. But I'm glad you're back."

"Did you get his number?"

"No."

"Have I taught you _nothing_?"

"Okay. I'm going to bed now. For real this time."

"I can't believe you didn't get his number."

"Good night, Sansa."

"I'm serious, Arya. This is probably the saddest thing I've ever heard."

"Yes, it's tragic. Go to sleep."

* * *

When her breathing evens out and the house goes silent, I allow my mind to wander. I think about strong hands and long fingers, clutched around a cup of coffee. Of long legs stretched out on Grand Central's marble steps, and ripped jeans, and the worn, burgundy hoodie he'd worn underneath his old, leather jacket. There's no arrogance in the way he sits, only contained self-assurance. I notice everything about him, little details that I could never fully explain to Sansa. She only sees the big picture. Money. Car. Reputation.

I see the scuffs on his converse and the wonder in his eyes when he looks up at an artificial sky. I see his hands shake with nerves when he talks to me, hear the quiet, deep evenness of his voice as he tries to hide it.

I don't notice guys often. Hardly at all.

But I notice everything about him.

* * *

"Could you please inform your sister that if she doesn't detach herself from her mirror in the next four minutes, we are going to be late," Jon says to me, shoving books into his backpack. My god-brother pushes his dark, unruly hair out of his face. He's our ride to school today, and he's taking it very seriously. "Robb, let's go! If we're late Ned's gonna kill me."

"No, he won't," I tell him practically, biting into an apple. "Principal Tywin might, but this always happens when Dad gives Madame Mordane the week off. The Stark house descends into chaos."

"That's poetic," Jon replies dryly, finally winning the battle with his backpack, but not with his hair. He straightens his blazer, looking, as always, uncomfortably out-of-place in it.

"Seriously," I tell him, yawning. I should never have started last night's conversation with Sansa, and I'm paying for it now. "I'm pretty sure that when Madame Mordane dies, Jaime Lannister will get voted City Council Chairman the very next day."

He snorts. "Bite your tongue. Oh, but first could you-"

"I'll get her," I laugh, taking the stairs two at a time. I pound on the door to the bathroom. "Sansa! Get your pretty little ass out of the bathroom before Jon has a panic attack."

Sansa emerges instantly, looking radiant. "What do you think?" she says uncertainly, smoothing away imaginary wrinkles from her navy Winterfell blazer. "I mean, I haven't seen him in two weeks, and the construction work has done nothing for my complexion-"

"Sansa, if you make me late because you're not sure if Joffrey Lannister will remember your name after fourteen days apart I swear to God-"

"Just-" She looks like she's about to cry. "-tell me what you think. Please."

I stare at her. "You look like you just stepped off the cover of _Seventeen_. Joffrey doesn't deserve you. Can we go?"

"Do you mean it?"

I make a strangled noise in the back of my throat, pulling her downstairs by the wrist. "Yes, I mean it. You are flawless and your hair is perfect and your skirt is impractically short for how cold it is outside-"

"I'm wearing tights, the same as you!" Sansa protests.

"-and you smell of lavender and something else that's going to annoy me for the rest of the day until I figure it out. Now you look at me, how do I look?"

Sansa surveys me despairingly. "You look homeless."

"I hear homeless is the new sexy," Robb says, laughing.

Jon doesn't laugh, instead pushing us out the door. "Seriously guys, we're now fifteen minutes behind Madame Mordane's color-coded schedule."

* * *

For all of Jon's worrying, we do actually make it to school on time, despite the November sleet that turns the roads to sheets of ice and a last-minute detour to pick up Theon Greyjoy, whose car apparently decided to protest against the early winter. Sansa complains about her hair, begging Jon to let her out at the front steps instead of making her walk from the lot.

"You all might as well go in with her," Jon mumbles, who always seems to handle the harsh weather better than the rest of us. Or maybe its just that he dresses more warmly, his long, black overcoat absurdly practical. "No use everyone getting hailed on."

Joffrey is waiting for Sansa just outside the immense double doors. His blond hair is every bit as meticulous as hers as he leans against the one of the wide pillars that lend shelter from the wind and sleet, looking down as though he owns the stone steps of Winterfell High. As soon as Sansa reaches him, he pulls her into a demanding kiss.

"How was Colorado, Sansa? Did you have a good time?" Robb mocks, taking on Joffrey's pretentious tone as he shakes the freezing rain from his hair. "I feel absolutely awful that your father forced you to sit next to the filthy commoners on a public bus…I hope it wasn't too unpleasant."

"Not at all, Joffrey, my suns and my stars," Theon responds without hesitation, playing along. "My unending love for you made the days pass by in minutes…" He winces as Joffrey continues his assault on Sansa's mouth. "Okay, I am now sufficiently turned off. In fact, I may never be capable of being turned on again."

"Oh, by all means continue," I say, laughing. "I was enjoying the subtitles."

"It's too late," Robb replies theatrically. "Theon broke character, the fourth wall is shattered."

Simultaneously, every single phone within Winterfell's stone walls goes off, a messy mix of standard ringtones and personalized music. Joffrey and Sansa break apart.

"Saved by the bell," laughs Theon.

* * *

Lateness at Winterfell High is punished harshly, even though there are no bells to signal the beginning and end of class periods. Principal Tywin constantly reminds us that if we are to be permitted to choose our own course curriculum and academic trajectory, we should also be fully capable of checking our watches. The unintended side effect of his strict no-lateness policy was that the entire student body's phones became our alarm system, wired to go off exactly eight times every day at precise, fifty-five minute intervals.

No one is ever late. No one skips class. No one leaves early.

So when the door to Professor Forel's Modern Lit & Poetry classroom opens halfway through his dramatic lecture on Imagism, every single student goes absolutely still. No one moves, except for Joffrey, whose face contorts into a self-satisfied smirk as he watches the intruding student cross the front of the classroom with slow, even steps. The newcomer wordlessly hands Professor Forel the dreaded late pass, with its distinctive Winterfell-blue stationary.

The paper is slightly damp, and even from my place two rows back I can tell that the ink is smudged faintly. The boy's hands shake, either with cold or with nerves, as Forel takes the late pass from him. His messy, dark hair is in his bright blue eyes, wet with sleet, and his clothes are soaked. White crystals still cling to his eyelashes. He's not wearing his blazer, its fabric turned black by the half-frozen rain. Instead, the dark material is thrown over his left shoulder carelessly, half-forgotten. His tie is undone, haphazardly draped around his neck.

Something in his deep, defiant eyes tugs at the back of my mind, startlingly familiar, but for a moment I'm too distracted to place them. _Seven hells, _I think. _Did he walk here? _

Mercifully, Forel doesn't comment on the state of his attire, although that too is strictly regulated at Winterfell. Instead, he says in his heavily accented voice, "Mr. Waters, is it? Better late than never."

"It won't happen again, sir," the boy replies simply, turning his unreadable eyes on the class, as if daring us to ask him why he's showed up thirty minutes late to class, soaked through to the bone. And suddenly, without warning, I'm slammed with recognition. I instantly become inappropriately aware of the way his wet dress shirt clings to the lines of his shoulders, the way he's pushed his sleeves up above his forearms. I resist the temptation to avert my eyes to my desk, telling myself that this is stupid. I shouldn't be affected this way by someone I hardly know. And I shouldn't be so self-concious about the fact that I had been described as homeless this morning.

"If you want, you can have a moment to go clean up-" Professor Forel begins quietly.

"That won't be necessary. I think I can thaw out just fine here."

If Forel is taken aback by the boy's harsh tone, he doesn't show it. He clears his throat. "Well then…class, as you can all see, we have a new student. Mr. Waters, is there anything you'd like to tell us about yourself?"

The exercise is absurd, and the whole class knows it. Joffrey lets out a scathing laugh, and the boy's eyes flicker momentarily in his direction.

"I like stargazing, poetry, and taking long, romantic walks in the sleet," the boys deadpans, the corners of his lips quirking up into a half-smile, his blue eyes shining with self-amusement. No one makes a sound.

Then the most unexpected thing happens. From the back of the class, in that last row of empty seats reserved for Sandor Clegane, I hear a bark of laughter. And not a forced, mocking laugh, either, but a real, genuine laugh, the older boy's scarred face contorting into a stunning white grin.

"Hey, kid," Clegane says, still laughing. "There's a couple of empty seats back here."


	4. Chapter 3: Spiders and Pricks

My half-brother pulls his silver Lexus over onto the side of the road, shutting off the engine. I refuse to look at him, staring directly out the front windshield as sleet falls in diagonally sheets across the hood of the car. Tiny pieces of hail clink against the metal, punctuating the purposeful silence. Joffrey turns towards me, forearm slung over the steering wheel in a posture he thinks is intimidating.

"Get out."

"What?"

"I can't very well be seen pulling up to school with my father's bastard kid, can I?" Joffrey says, his deceptively pure blue eyes waiting for my reaction. "It wouldn't be good for my reputation."

"It's thirty degrees outside."

"It's not that far."

The school is at least another mile up the road. Joffrey smirks cruelly, as though this is all just a game to him, a power play. He can't force me from the car, and he knows it. I could take him out in seconds.

But that's what he wants. One wrong move, one violent outburst, and I'm no longer his family's problem.

I can see it in his eyes that he doesn't think I'll do it. But he doesn't know how desperate I am. I have nothing: no family, no money, no home. My complete dependence on people who don't give a shit about me has stripped away my autonomy, and that's something Joffrey, who has everything, can't understand.

So when I grab my black leather jacket from the back, knowing that it won't do a thing to help, his eyes go wide.

"Okay," I say, forcing the door open. "See you at school."

* * *

"The little fucker actually made you walk the whole way here?" laughs Sandor Clegane. Everyone else seems to avoid him, his impressive frame and scarred face alienating us at the lunch table in the far corner. But they're missing out. When he's not scowling, he's got this dark sense of humor rooted in self-deprecation that I immediately come to appreciate. And I have to admit (now that my clothes have dried, my fingers have thawed out, and Sandor has stolen coffee from the teacher's lounge in a steaming Styrofoam cup) that the entire situation is retrospectively amusing.

"Dropped my ass a mile down the road," I say, unable to help the laughter that wells up inside my chest. "You should have seen his face when I opened the car door."

"Bet the little prick pissed himself. He'd have a hard time explaining to his grandfather how the new kid at school wound up stone cold dead on the side of the road," he grunts, leaning his chair back on two legs. "But it sounds like just the sort of thing he'd do."

"How long have you known him?" I ask.

"Used to be best friends," he tells me, shrugging. "When we were twelve, thirteen."

"But not anymore?"

"When this happened, I was in the hospital for two months." He motions vaguely to the scars around his left eye, an intricate web of raised skin and harsh, red burn marks. "He didn't come to see me once," Sandor continues. "And I realized that we weren't friends. You can't be friends with someone who only cares about himself."

A quiet moment of shared understanding passes between us. I drink my coffee, staring out across the busy cafeteria.

"Looking for someone?" he asks me.

"Not really."

But I think immediately of her wide, charcoal eyes staring at me as I walked past her to the back of the classroom. I think about the way her short, dark hair stops just above the nape of her neck, about how I want to trail my fingers along the skin there. I think about the cadence of her voice when Professor Forel asked her to read the John Gould Fletcher poem aloud. I think about how she'd turned around in her seat, just once, concern lining every inch of her face when she saw me, and I'm suddenly unconsciously scanning the crowded room for her.

"Shit," Sandor says suddenly, slamming the front legs of his chair back to the ground, eyebrows drawing together. He's suddenly viciously scrolling down his phone, and I'm struck with a moment of faint tech envy, until I see the app he's opened.

"Is that…twitter?"

* * *

Varys Rugen is clearly in his element, typing away on his keyboard at a table with a bunch of other geeks. But the thing is, he doesn't look like a geek. Intelligent, yes, and clever, but not bookish. His bald head shines under the florescent lights, his beady, secretive eyes fixed on the screen of his very expensive Mac.

I'll never understand how he does it, but in the three hours and twenty-two minutes I've been officially enrolled at Winterfell High, he is able to discover more about me than the rest of the student population combined. I steal Sandor's phone, scrolling through the cryptic information quickly pouring in through Varys's twitter account, the central hub for all student gossip, reading the best ones aloud.

_" atthespyder: Apparently gendry waters got on the wrong side of his little brother this morning. #Lannisterfamilydrama…_You been leaking my secrets, Clegane?" I laugh, my voice sarcastically accusatory.

"Shut up. Let me see that!"

"No, wait, it gets better…_ atthespyder: Judging by his flimsy leather coat, nobody warned gendry waters that #winteriscoming…_this is brilliant. How the hell is he finding this stuff?"

"Don't know. He just does. How are you being so normal about this? He's posting your personal life all over the internet."

I shrug. "Guess I'm easily entertained._ atthespyder: Still wondering why atchiefofpolicenedstark hasn't paid his old army buddy's bastard a visit yet #hoorah… atthespyder: We hear that atladysansa did some "community service" for gendry waters while she was away #charitycase."_

"The hell is he implying?" mutters Sandor, eyes narrowing.

"I think he's implying that I'm a bit low on financial resources at the moment."

"No, not you. Sansa."

"Who's she?"

"The Stark girl, Joffrey's girlfriend. Over there, attached to his face."

"Oh," I say offhandedly, considering the girl trapped between Joffrey and a wall. "It's kind of hard to tell- there's this asshole blocking my view- but I think she might be the same girl that sat next to me on the bus to New York."

Sandor snorts as I hand him his phone, but I don't miss the slight flicker of relief in his black eyes as he takes it from me. I almost laugh, almost tell him that Sansa Stark is the last girl I want to do _community service_ with…but I see the way his hand tightens around his phone when she pulls Joffrey down by his blazer for one last kiss before heading to her final class, and think better of it.

* * *

"Want a lift home?" Sandor asks me after my seventh and final period, catching me by my locker.

I feign indecisiveness as I pull on my jacket. "I don't know, Joffrey's got this really nice Lexus. I mean, black leather seats, four wheel drive-"

"You want the fucking ride or not?"

In that moment, I thank God for Sandor Clegane. "Yeah."

"Too bad," he grunts, turning and walking towards the entrance, slamming the double doors open.

I laugh, trailing after him. "Come on, I was just kidding about Joffrey-"

"No," Sandor says, but I can see him fighting a smile. I have to take the steps two at a time to keep up with his large strides. "You had your chance, Waters. You blew it. And for the record, my car is that awesome 2013 Chevy Camaro parked in the reserve space, right next to your precious Joffrey's."

"I like that car," I say. "That is a really nice car."

He unlocks the Camaro remotely and the headlights flash. Then, completely straight-faced, he turns his back on me.

"Clegane…Clegane, I swear if you leave me here with that prick-"

And then I clap my hand over my mouth, because Arya Stark is leaning against Joffrey's car, looking all manner of beautiful with snow in her hair and freckles on her pale skin. Her observant eyes are fixed on me, lips parted slightly.

And I've just been talking about pricks.

* * *

Please Read & Review

Seriously, tell me what you think! I've never done anything but one-shots, so I appreciate the feedback.

AN: also apparently we can't use the .at. symbol on this website? i've never been more frustrated in my life. I was literally entertaining myself by coming up with got twitter references that just adiadjpjg;ksjdj this sucks. *sighs* you guys are smart. you'll figure out what "atthespyder" means.


	5. Chapter 4: Godswood

I can't say a damn thing. I can't even apologize. She stares up at me, charcoal gray eyes rooting me to the ground. "Hi," she says finally.

"Hi." Yes. Good. Words. Talking. Motor functions.

"I'm Arya."

"Yes, I remember," I tell her. God knows I remember. Her dark hair is in disarray, the harsh wind tugging at it, the cold has brought color into her cheeks. This morning's sleet has mercifully turned into soft, wet snow, beautiful but gone as soon as it hits the ground. She pulls her gray peacoat tighter around her, and I can see her breath on the air.

Sandor coughs.

"Sorry," she says. "I didn't mean to interrupt. You two were obviously having an _intense_ discussion-"

"No, it's fine," I say, still cursing myself internally for not watching my mouth, but her eyes are playful, teasing.

"It's not fine," Sandor grunts. "You scared the hell out of me. Make a noise next time. Breathe or something."

She raises an eyebrow skeptically. "_I _scared the hell out of _you_?"

"Careful, girl. Haven't you ever been told not to insult people that are bigger than you?"

"Then I wouldn't get to insult anyone," she quips.

"Are you here for Joffrey, or just to annoy me?" Sandor scoffs back, but there's no real animosity in his voice.

"No, I…" Her voice trails off, apparently having exhausted her source material for clever retorts. She puts her hands in her pockets. "Neither. I was looking for Gendry."

My name on her tongue sends an unexpected warmth through me, and I realize that it's because I've never heard her say it before. "Why?" I ask her.

She squares her shoulders, as if steeling herself. "Everyone's going to the godswood tonight."

"Are you going?" I ask her, even though I have no idea what that is or why everyone would want to go there.

"Yes."

"Are you asking me to go?"

"No," she says, a fierce light in her eyes. "I came to give you my number."

"Why?" I ask.

"So you'll be able to find me there."

"I didn't say I was going," I point out, but she just keeps looking at me with that resolute expression, and I realize that I don't even stand a chance.

I hand her my phone.

* * *

"What the hell were you thinking, using that kind of language in front of Arya Stark?" Sandor yells at me, large hands gripping the Camaro's steering wheel so tightly that I wonder if he's going to break it off. "She's the chief of police's _daughter _for Christ's sake."

"Yeah, because you were such a gentleman to her," I mutter defensively. "You just missed the turn…"

"I didn't miss the turn! I know where fucking Casterly Drive is!"

There's a moment of terse silence.

"Okay, I missed the damn turn," he admits.

I laugh. "So are you going to tell me what this godswood thing is?"

"Local superstition. Really big tree in the middle of the forest. Shit went down there."

"Extended edition?"

Sandor shakes his head. "I won't tell it right."

"Then I'll be misinformed."

Sandor laughs. "Okay. So the story goes that there was this Native American tribe living in in this area before the Revolutionary War."

"Okay."

"And they had their own religion, which was basically animism. You know, where stones and trees and stuff have gods inside them? Anyway, supposedly the wind rustling the leaves was the gods' way of talking to people, so they built these stone walls around sections of the woods to protect the trees. And those places are called godswoods. But then the colonists came over and thought the Native Americans were pagans or something, so they tried to cut down the sacred trees that the Natives had been praying to for hundreds of years."

"Tried?" I ask.

"They were unsuccessful. When they started cutting down the godswoods, it started a violent war. People say that the Native American prophets prayed to the old gods for victory, and that the gods cursed the colonists to die at the hands of those who worshipped the old gods. Eventually the colonists were driven back; they swore never to cut down the sacred trees again, and the Natives agreed to leave them in peace. So now there's a lot of local people who still kind of believe in the old gods, like they go to the godswood to pray and swear in politicians and everything."

"Do you?"

"Nah, I'm not superstitious. Never prayed in my life."

"So basically Arya Stark just invited me to go to church with her?" I say finally.

He barks out a laugh at he turns onto Casterly Drive. "No. I don't think praying is what that girl had in mind."

* * *

Cersei Lannister is home, and immediately makes her herself known.

Casterly is an old, two-story stone carriage house, with fireplaces that burn from September to April and high, vaulted wood beam ceilings. The carriage doors, no longer used for their original purpose, are thrown open during the summer.

The last time I was here it was mid-August, and the Lannisters had thrown the most extravagant evening party, opening the doors wide to let the warm light of the house spill onto the lawn. Golden orbs had been strung up across the yard, like little moons, and a string quartet had played music well into the evening. It was the most egregious display of wealth I had seen in my seven years of life, and I'd never forgotten the sounds of Ella Fitzgerald's _Dream a Little Dream of Me_ as it filtered up to the second story where Joffrey and I had pressed our faces against the window panes, spying on the lavishly dressed guests below us. We had been too young to know that we were supposed to hate each other, too innocent to pick up on our parent's bitter resentment of their failed marriage.

Ignorance wasn't bliss, but it was close.

"My father informed me that you were late to school today," she says. Cersei is a commanding presence, attractive even in her forties. But for all her physical beauty, my father had never loved her enough to stay faithful to her, and I think that bothers her more than she cares to admit.

I decide against commenting on the details Principal Lannister conveniently left out. "That's right."

Her steel blue eyes, almost identical to her sons, narrow hatefully. "Rumors are also circulating that you have been making unwanted advances towards Sansa, Joffrey's girlfriend. I'm certain I don't need to tell you how destructive that would be for your situation here."

"By all means," I say blandly, wondering if Cersei is getting her information from Varys or the women at the DAR.

"Sansa is a good girl," Cersei says, her voice sharp. "A bit silly and shallow, but she comes from a good family. A family that would never allow their daughter to be pursued by someone like you- who is going nowhere- when far superior options have been made perfectly available to them."

"I'll keep that in mind," I say, trying not to reveal just how hard those words have hit me. I start to climb the heavy, oak stairs to the second floor, turning my back on her.

"Where are you going?" she demands.

I don't look back at her. Don't want her to see the tightness in my jaw or the pain in my eyes. "Apparently I'm going nowhere."

* * *

I hear the crunch of ice and leaves under Sandor's feet ahead of me in the darkness. The moon hangs low in the sky, obscured by branches stripped bare by winter, illuminating the spindly path through the woods. "Damn, it's cold," I say.

"You need a better coat," Sandor informs me gruffly. "We're almost there."

Almost as though the trees hear him say that, the path abruptly widens. A crude stone wall, about thirty feet high, is obscured by the tops of tree that seem to grow right up against it, their gnarled roots twisting under the hard, frozen ground. The wall is unscathed by their assault, seemingly untouched by the demands of the trees, as if protected by some ancient magic.

There is a break in the wall just before us, and we follow the dirt path through it, the two sides of the wall like pieces of snipped string; they seem to belong together, and as we pass through the space between them I feel a sudden heightened sense of urgency. I want to run, and climb, and scream, but to do so would seem irreverent.

I immediately understand why people would come here to worship, why the locals would feel superstitious about this Wood within the woods. This place is loud and quiet, old and young, warm and cold, all at the same time. I want to write about it, because this place is poetry come alive, but I'm not sure if I could find the words.

If gods lived anywhere, it would be here.

"Further in," Sandor says, and I realize that this is not some small garden or courtyard. It is itself a forest, and we have to follow the path for another two minutes before I make out a golden, flickering light between the wizened tree trunks and hear the laughter of teenagers and the loud thrum of music. Suddenly the dense trees open up into a small clearing, and I see what Sandor had referred to as a "really big tree".

That description is accurate, but it doesn't really capture the essence of the immense, white tree. A sad face carved into its ancient, peeling bark, reflected in the giant pool of glassy water that is frozen around the edges. Wood logs crackle in the center of the clearing, far enough away from the great tree that nothing catches fire, but close enough that the smell of smoke faintly permeates the night air.

There's about eighty Winterfell students scattered through the clearing, and as I watch them one thing becomes blatantly apparent. Despite the sense of magic and sacredness in this place, these kids are definitely not treating it as a church. Beer bottles line the frozen ground, and there are a more than a few students who have found creative ways of keeping warm.

"Drink?" Sandor offers.

"No, I don't…" I say automatically, and then I almost laugh at the absurdity of the situation. "Wait, hang on, you guys come out here to _party_?"

"It is the only place we party," an athletic, muscular boy tells me enthusiastically, his white teeth contrasting against his deep copper skin as he smiles. His long, black hair is pulled into a ponytail, and he's wearing a navy letter jacket. His arm winds around the shoulders of a petite girl less than half his size, and she laughs when he taps his red solo cup against Sandor's beer bottle and says: "Just be sure to spill some for the gods."

"You're Gendry, right?" she asks me, and I can't tell if her eyes are actually violet, or if it's just a trick of the light. She is very beautiful, with silver-blonde hair pulled into a messy braid. "Don't worry, we don't believe everything that gets caught in Varys's web of information. I'm Dany. And the drunk one here is Drogo."

"Dany's being modest because you're just meeting her, but she's student body president," Sandor tells me. "So get on her good side."

"And is it normal for the student body president to condone underage drinking?" I ask her.

"Oh, it's perfectly legal," she says. "The City Council passed regulations stating that the only laws to be observed in the godswood are the moral codes of the old gods."

I look at the face carved into the tree, red sap dripping from its hollow eyes. "Well, I'm not sure how I would feel getting wasted with that staring at me…"

"Oh, the old gods don't care about that," Dany laughs. "Kinslaying, incest, bastardy, and inhospitality…the only sins you have to worry about."

"Well, one of those rules me out," I reply.

"Which one?" asks Drogo, his smoky laugh bouncing off the trees.

"Wouldn't you like to know," I say darkly.

Dany's white smile pierces the darkness, and she slips out from under Drogo's heavy arm. "Come on, you're looking for Arya, right?"

"Is it that obvious?" I joke, surprised that she would have pinned me that easily.

She starts walking along the edge of the pool, towards the crude fire pit, the red flames within it crackling. "Only a lot," she teases.

"Hey, you coming?" I ask Sandor.

He eyes the fire apprehensively. "I'm good here."

"Okay," I say. "Don't ditch me."

I catch up to Dany, and slow to match her pace. "It wasn't obvious," Dany says, quietly. "Arya just said you might come."

"Did she?"

"Mm," Dany muses, staring at me calculatingly. "You know, in the six years I've known her, I've never once seen her ask a guy out."

"She didn't ask me out," I tell her. "She was pretty clear about that."

"Look, Gendry." Her tone is hard, unreadable, and I realize that she is being protective of Arya, that they are friends. "You don't know her-"

"Yet. I don't know her _yet_," I say. Dany stops, her lips parting in surprise, and I continue quietly. "But I could use some advice."

Her eyes soften, and I think, just maybe, I might have won this girl's respect. "Okay. You'd better know what the hell you want from her, because she doesn't play games. Tell her what she can't have, and she'll tear the world down trying to get at it. You try and change her, she'll cut you out of her life so fast you won't even know it's happened."

"Why would I want to change her?" I ask.

"People always want to change other people."

* * *

Please Read & Review

AN: Thanks for all the feedback so far! This is my first Gendrya fic, so I'm in the process of going back through the old chapters and making some edits. Someone mentioned quite politely and accurately that there are some non-canon character descriptions, and I proceeded to smack myself in the forehead (no really, I'm usually so good with canon stuff and then this happened). The next chapter will be a 2000 word metaphor-laden dissertation on how Gendry's eyes are the bluest blue to ever blue to make up for this oversight (not really, I want to get to the Gendrya stuff and I'm sure you do too so we're gonna move this right along...I wanted to have it in this chapter, but it just wasn't working).

And for the reviewers who are asking why I won't just **_post the whole damn story_**_ **already**_...the answer is I can't. I'm not teasing you, I just haven't written it yet ;). I have a really well developed plot and story arc but the sad truth is that I'm just writing as I go and uploading as soon as the next chapter is finished. x


	6. Chapter 5: Cut and Bruised

"Do you want anything?"

"No, I don't drink." It's a neutral statement, not judgmental one way or the other, so I don't feel guilty about the beer in my own hand. But it still frustrates the hell out of me, because that's the first time I realize that Gendry edits himself when he talks. He's reserved, and it's infuriating. But I get the sense that _he_ feels as though he's saying too much.

I'd much rather learn about him this way, though, his blue eyes lighting up as he tells me about Colorado, about King's Landing and the mechanic shop where he worked, about his best friend's horse ranch where he spent most of his summers. His deep voice filters through the steady thrum of dying music, and I watch the movements of his hands closely, because they sometimes give me more clues about what's going on in his head than his words do. He doesn't mention why he had to work thirty hours a week in a hot, sweaty auto shop. He doesn't talk about why he'd rather spend his summers with his friend's family than his own. And he doesn't tell me why he doesn't drink.

But his hands let me read between the lines. When he's relaxed, recalling some genuinely pleasant memory, his hands become fluid, expressive. But they become deadly still or retreat into his pockets upon encountering unwanted recollections.

"So," I say, giving up for the moment on trying to figure him out all in one night. "Are you absolutely sure you're related to Joffrey Lannister?"

He tilts his head to the side, frowning. "Pretty sure."

"By _blood_?"

He laughs, shrugging. "That's what they tell me."

"You don't look a thing like him." It's true. Joffrey is thin-boned and fine-featured, Gendry is solid, muscular. Even their eyes are different, Joffrey's the flat, steel blue of the Lannisters and his half-brother's a bright cerulean. It's almost impossible to believe that Robert Baratheon could have fathered both of them.

"You don't look like your sister," he points out.

"I don't look like anyone in my family," I say dismissively.

"I look like my father," he tells me, as if it a given fact.

"No you don't," I say without thinking. He freezes, broad shoulders tensing, and I immediately with I could take the words back. The easy conversation suddenly dissipates, and I look away. "I…sorry, that was completely…"

"No, I forgot," he says. "Your father knew him, right?"

I can tell it bothers him, somehow, that I know who Robert Baratheon is. But I don't understand why. In the pictures my father kept from his army days, Robert had been handsome, filling out his uniform with a rogue confidence. Gendry admittedly does share some of his father's attributes: dark, messy hair, and broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist. But his brand of self-assurance is different from his father's. Robert had always looked haughty and arrogant in pictures, a cocky, charming smile lining his features, and I'm confused about why Gendry would assume he looks like his father when everything about them is completely different.

I want to tell him that, but I'm not sure how to say it.

"So what about you?" he asks me, as if not wanting to linger too long on the subject of his dead father, and I wonder if that is one of the many things he redacts from his side of conversations.

"Nothing much to tell."

"You're not American," he says, an obvious reference to the faint accent that I've never been able to ditch.

"I am, technically. I was born here. My mom is British, though. When I was younger, my dad was still in the army and we moved around a lot, but for the most part we were at this UK base called Menwith Hill. It was co-run by the Americans, but all my teachers and friends were British."

"Did you like it there?"

"No, never. Neither did my father, he always missed Winterfell…maybe it was in our blood. We moved back here when I was eleven, but it was too late. My father could never get us to break the accent; it was too engrained in our heads by then. Bran and Rickon lost theirs, though."

"Your younger siblings?" he asks.

I nod.

"I always kind of wanted a big family," he says, leaning back against the trunk of a weirwood thoughtfully.

"What, with a two story house, white picket fence, and a bunch of kids?" I laugh skeptically.

He looks at me curiously. "What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing," I say, biting my tongue and feeling a sinking feeling in my stomach. "Nothing's wrong with that."

"But that's not what you want," he says knowingly. He shoves his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket.

"Don't try and tell me it'll be different when I'm older. My mom says that, and it pisses me off."

"I wasn't going to say that," he says quietly. "You shouldn't have to do anything you don't want to do, Arya."

There's something simple and honest about that answer that I like. I realize that maybe Gendry doesn't say a lot because he doesn't need to. He says more than most people in half as many words.

"What do _you_ want to do?" he asks.

"I don't know. But I'm going to do _something_. Not get stuck here."

There's a moment where I become far too sober, and realize how heavy the conversation has become. Gendry is staring at me, making me feel self-conscious about what I'd just confessed to him. "Come on. It's getting late."

We're some of the last people here, and I realize we've been talking for hours, forgetting that our rides home are waiting for us. He falls into step beside me, hands still in his pockets, and I think about how someone should get him a better coat. "I want to be a writer," he says, as if in response to the question he'd posed to me. Then he laughs. "But I can't afford it."

"You can't afford a pen and pap-" I start to ask sarcastically, but then suddenly my boot skids on a patch of icy ground, and I go down hard, my hands going out to break my fall.

Gendry quickly kneels down. "Jesus, you okay?"

I hold out my hands, my palms split open and bleeding. Then I become aware of the pain, and take a sharp breath in through my teeth. "_Shit_."

Gendry has my wrists in his hands, but at that curse word his eyes go wide.

"What, you're the only one who's allowed to curse? Here, help me up."

He does, and when I'm safely on two feet again he pulls my hands back out to inspect them, a worried look flickering across his face. "It's fine, I have horrible hands anyway," I tell him. "Sansa says they look like a boy's."

Gendry looks amused. "What, these tiny things?" Then he flips his own hands over, comparing them to mine, and in the faint light of the fire I see a myriad of scars across his knuckles and fingers. "Try working in a mechanic shop for four years. My hands are pretty much wrecked." Then he takes my wrists again, gently inspecting the shallow cuts. "Still, you probably want to get the these cleaned…"

His voice trails off, and I'm suddenly aware of how close we are, my tiny wrists resting fragile as bird's bones in his strong, scarred hands. I take in a sharp breath.

"Does it still hurt?" he asks, almost too quiet for me to hear. Not for the first time tonight I wish he would just say what he's thinking.

"No, it doesn't hurt."

His hands stay at my wrists a moment too long, and then he releases me. I take a step back, my hands still open and bleeding.

"We should get that looked at."

And then, as if he doesn't trust himself not to touch me again, he puts his hands back in his pockets.

* * *

When Robb and I get home, it's nearly three in the morning, and we tread carefully on the creaky wooden floors. Our parents had never imposed a strict curfew, even on weeknights. My dad always said that if we weren't doing anything illegal, immoral, or unsafe, we could stay out as late as we wanted. Conditional on academic performance.

But we still made an attempt not to wake anyone. Our house was spacious, one of the old houses of Winterfell that had been passed down through generations, much like Casterly or Iron Island. But the problem with old houses is that every footstep, every hushed noise, seems magnified ten times by the high ceilings and antiquated wooden floors.

So I'm surprised that I don't hear Sansa crying until I enter our room. Her back is to me, and I see the outline of her shoulders shake.

"Sansa?" I say quietly. "Are you awake?"

She goes still.

"I know you're awake."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Is this about Joffrey, because everyone knows the rumor Varys started isn't true, so if he's still-"

"Shut up, Arya! I said I don't want to talk about it."

I feel anger rise up in my chest, mixing with the lingering feeling of Gendry's sudden withdrawal from before, and it doesn't help that it's late and I'm tired. The words come out harsh, the way I mean them to. "You know what, Sansa? I came home needing to talk to you. I mean, _really_ needing to talk to you, because I'm way in over my head with Gendry and you're the _only_ one I can talk to about it. But you and your boyfriend have one stupid spat and you just shut down!"

I flip on the lights angrily, expecting to see her red eyes and pathetically smudged mascara.

But this is so much worse.

* * *

Remember to read and review!

AN: Crying because of the people who actually review every single chapter. x

Confused because apparently more users read chapter 3 than chapter 2 which doesn't make any sense ¯\(°_o)/¯


	7. Chapter 6: Moth to a Flame

In the morning, Sansa gets up and puts on her makeup. But it does nothing to hide the black-blue bruise that is blooming over her cheekbone. She irons her clothes to perfection, taking care to get the pleated skirt just right, and braids her hair, not a strand out of place. Sansa has always been beautiful, but today she strives for perfection. It's not an act of revenge. It's an act of submission.

She's angry with me, and she hardly speaks a word at breakfast. She's afraid I'll tell someone, that my suspicions will make the shallow excuse she feeds to Dad and Robb even less convincing. My throat burns, the acidity of knowing that Joffrey did this to her blistering somewhere near my vocal cords. But I have no proof, and can't give voice to that accusation without doing more harm than good.

Sansa lies for him. She lies through her teeth, even to me, and I go along with it because there is nothing else I can do.

* * *

When we were younger, I was always labeled the aggressor. I wasn't afraid to get dirty, to give as good as I got. Sansa was the peacemaker. She wanted stability and order and she played by the rules. I got onto fights on the playground; she gave up her swing the moment she saw another kid waiting for it. It's no different with relationships. I'm not afraid to fight, even with people I love. I have a brain and a tongue, and sometimes I use them to say cruel, horrible things. And like last night, I usually regret them. Sansa is the pacifist, the one who holds her tongue and body in check.

It serves her purpose now. She holds her head high when she ascends the steps of Winterfell, Joffrey waiting for her by the stone pillars as he does every morning. I want to kill him.

He kisses her as though he's done nothing, as though everything is the same between them, and I wonder how long this has been going on. I watch Sansa carefully, and she shows no outward signs of distance from him. Her smile, her laugh, her arm around his waist are all familiar gestures of affection. She accepts his touch easily, giving no indication that Joffrey's cruelty extends beyond words.

"Morning," Gendry says to me when I reach the top of the steps, as if he'd been waiting for me. He must catch me staring at Sansa and Joffrey, because his voice betrays a note of concern. "You okay?"

"No," I tell him, truthfully.

"Anything I can do?"

_Yes,_ I think. _You're doing it already._ "What are you doing after school?" I ask him instead.

"Nothing," he says. "Homework, maybe. Starting in the middle of the semester sucks. Forel's told me I need to read the entire _Anthology of Modern Poetry _by Monday to catch up."

I smile for the first time today. "What if I told you I had a way to get on his good side, and get the reading done?"

* * *

Syrio Forel doesn't like many students. I am an exception.

It's not that he's biased. But Forel doesn't put up with bullshit answers. The problem is, he teaches a class on modern literature and poetry, so there are plenty of bullshit answers.

Today, we are dealing with a poem by Langston Hughes:

_The gold moth did not love him_

_So, gorgeous, she flew away._

_But the grey moth circled the flame_

_Until the break of day._

_And then, with wings like a dead desire,_

_She fell, fire-caught, into the flame._

And everyone goes on about how the gray moth dies because she was in love with the flame. For the most part, I block out their comments, wishing that Gendry didn't sit all the way in the back. Then I'd have some distraction other than my own thoughts and my classmates shallow interpretations. I don't know what the poem means, but I know Syrio well enough to know that whatever it looks like on the surface, it probably isn't. I stare at the words blankly; poetry means nothing to me, it's just a bunch of random words made to sound nice together. And with last night's fight with Sansa still on my mind, I'm in no mood to invest effort trying to decode the abstract words on the page before me.

"I think it means, like, that the gold moth thought she was too beautiful for him, you know? Like she was self-absorbed. But the gray moth falls in love, and it destroys her."

"Yeah, it's representing two girls. One beautiful, one not. And the ugly one gets burned up because she loved something dangerous."

I scribble on the edge of my book.

"Look harder! The words are on the page, and at first glance you might think their meaning is obvious. Do we take them as they are, or do we dig deeper? The seeing, the true seeing, that is the heart of it," says Syrio, pacing the front of the class, his warm accent trickling through. He is notorious for this kind of cryptic teaching, impossible to understand until you've learned the lesson firsthand. "Because words lie. They are deceptive by their very nature, only giving up the truth after a hard-fought battle."

Then his eyes light on Gendry, and I see the glint in them. "Mr. Waters. You are very quiet, sitting there in the back of the class. You must be thinking grand things in your head. Share them with us."

"The grey moth doesn't love the flame," Gendry says simply. I turn around. He's relaxed at his desk, eyes expectant.

Syrio smiles. "Go on."

"It was obsessed, at first, infatuated. It desired the flame, maybe even loved it at first. But it stayed there too long, until it's wings gave out, until whatever desire or infatuation kept it alive failed. It's a dead desire, a old love that keeps getting rehashed because she can't let go."

"What does it mean?" Syrio asks him.

"It means that desire is temporary, and if you stay with someone you don't love for too long, it will burn you up."

"How so?"

Gendry falters. "I don't know."

Syrio's eyes light up at his honesty. "_Good answer_. But the beauty of poetry is that it's not the _only _answer. For homework, we will look at the difference between desire and love, if one can be found, and you will all I'm sure come to very different conclusions. But everyone must seek out the truth in the poetry of Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi, who once said: _The minute I heard my first love story I started looking for you, not knowing how blind that was. Lovers don't finally meet somewhere. They're in each other all along._ Desire, longing, passion, love! Mr. Waters has posited that there is a difference between them. Let's find out if he's right."

* * *

Syrio's class is the first of the day, and it's the only one that Gendry and I share. A year younger than him, most of our classes don't coincide. But I catch glimpses of him in the hallway. I try to focus on what Dany's saying at lunch, even though I'm fascinated by the way he laughs with his whole body whenever Sandor says something ingenious. I want to stand up and walk to the far corner of the cafeteria where the two of them have isolated themselves and find out what made the corners of his eyes crinkle like that.

So when the last phone stops ringing at 3:16, I escape to the hallway, shoving books into my locker. I grab my coat, pulling it on as I rush out of the school, eager to have this part of the day over with. Sansa is sitting alone on the steps, but when she sees me she immediately stands up and walks over to Margaery Tyrell. Safety in numbers. I try to force down the uneasy sense that this situation may have, perhaps permanently, driven a wedge between myself and my sister.

I think about the gold moth, and wish Sansa would have the good sense to know she's beautiful, that Joffrey doesn't love her. To fly away from the things that are harmful to her.

* * *

Please Read & Review! 読んで、レビューを書いてください！(Sorry this chapter's a little short, I had a Japanese midterm!)

AN: Okay, more canon character description problems. I haven't read GoT in ages, and I've been basing everything off of my thoughts of them from the show (which is why I immediately wanted to change Gendry and Arya so that they match the show and book). But with Joffrey, I'm just not sure: he has blue eyes in the show, and apparently green in the book? **So here's the question I need people to answer: do fanfic writers here go by book!description or tv!description? **(And will anyone be really unhappy if I use the show's version of Syrio, because that's pretty much where I'm headed...) You can PM me or just throw it in with the review if you feel strongly one way or the other. Canon problems. Can't write fanfic without 'em, but thanks for drawing them to my attention (also, I might actually go back and read all the books this time as a result)! :)


	8. Chapter 7: Four-Eyed Soldier

When Arya asked me if I was doing anything after school, I hadn't anticipated that I would end up in the back seat of Professor Forel's car, waiting awkwardly as Arya steps inside the local Bank of Winterfell. I watch the flash of her blue scarf as she disappears through the revolving doors, feel the weird silence set in that usually happens with teachers and students.

"So…Professor Forel."

"Syrio, please. Professor Forel sounds like an old man." Forel isn't old. He's in his forties, lean but physically fit, with wild, curly hair, Italian features and a warm accent.

"Okay. Arya didn't mention where we're going exactly."

"Then it would be most unwise for me to tell you and ruin what she has clearly endeavored to keep secret."

"What, you afraid of her?" I challenge, hoping to provoke him into telling me. But Syrio Forel is apparently not to be provoked.

"I am," he says gravely, but his warm brown eyes are amused. "And you should be as well. For Arya can be most frightening, when she wishes."

"How do you know her?" I ask curiously.

"From school, of course," he says, and I get the feeling he's being clever, that there is more to the story. A poet, he plays with words, and he's playing with them now.

"And?" I prompt.

"When Arya was very little, her father put her in dance lessons. I was her teacher, and it would seem I can't get rid of her even now." In his voice I hear both the fondness of a friend and the exasperation of a parent. I realize that when Arya had offered a way to get on his good side, she'd meant that the only way to get on his good side was through her.

"You were a dancer?"

"Ballet, yes. For many years, but I'm afraid our bodies are not made to handle the demands of dancing for long. But I love teaching, and I love books, so here we are."

"And Arya put up with that?" I ask. It doesn't seem to fit with the image I have of her in my mind. Simple and casual, not particularly obsessed with outward appearance. Dancing, especially ballet, seems a strange passion for her to have.

"She was very talented, and I am a good teacher. So yes, she put up with it. In fact, I think she came to love it…her drive, her persistent nature made her strive for perfection. She was the best student I ever had." He looks like he's far away, remembering something long-gone that he wishes he could get back.

"Was?" I ask.

"Arya and I have both retired from dancing," he says, expression closed. "And that, I think, is a discussion you should have with her."

"Then can you answer something else for me?"

"I make no promises."

"If you teach _Modern Lit and Poetry_, why are we reading Rumi? He died in the late 1200s."

He throws his head back, laughing. Then he holds up his forefinger, the tips of his thumb and the others touching. "Because you, Gendry Waters, are the first student to ever ask me that."

I see Arya emerge from the bank, shivering slightly in the chill. She closes the car door quickly, as if to let in as little of the winter air as possible. "What did I miss?"

"Nothing, little cat. Your friend here is very boring so far."

* * *

"You two go on in," Forel tells us, a scheming glint in his eye, and I wonder if he's leaving us here alone on purpose. He's observant, and it makes me nervous. But I know that there's no way that he could know that we'd spent hours last night talking in the chill of the godswood, that I'd wanted to kiss her then more than was safe, that despite his warnings I am still not afraid of her, but of myself.

We're parked in a near-vacant lot outside of a series of bleak, connected buildings with gray siding. They are nondescript, with no markings or signs over the doors. "I'll open up ahead of you. It's no trouble to walk from here, is it?" Forel asks Arya.

Arya shakes her head, laughing. "It's not snowing, so I count that as good weather. We'll be fine."

I follow her out of the car, and Forel pulls out of the parking lot, leaving us there. She tugs on the sleeve of my jacket. "Come _on_."

The door clings behind us when we enter, and I realize that the inside isn't quite as shabby as the outside might have suggested. While the gray panels had made the buildings look dilapidated, the interior looks something like a slightly run-down hospital. Clinical and clean, with bright lights and a waiting room. The chairs are old, empty, and there are no magazines on the coffee table. Arya approaches the desk, and I trail along behind her.

The desk is manned by a teenage kid, no older than us and probably a bit younger. He's scrawny, dressed in jeans and a graphic tee that hangs off him, with hair like straw and the vacant look of a stoner. His mouth splits into a wide grin when he sees Arya. "Arya Stark. Thought you'd fallen off the face of the earth."

"Hey, Lommy. What've you got for me?"

"How much Forel give you?"

"Three fifty," she tells him, pulling out a wallet from her backpack. My eyes widen at the number when I realize she doesn't mean three dollars and fifty cents.

"That won't pay me minimum wage, okay? Rent's gone up and the boss has been riding my ass about practically giving 'em away when he's not here. Says it's cheaper to just get rid of 'em."

"Then fortunately for you I picked up a little extra on the way," she says, winking.

He laughs. "You scared me there for a second. Come on then, through the back. Who's the newbie?"

"Gendry," I tell him.

"You allergic?"

"No," I say, squeezing through a darkened hallway behind him, even though I'm not really sure what I'm meant to be allergic to. Then he opens a heavy, metal door with a thud, and the cacophony of barking makes it absurdly obvious.

"Got two labs in yesterday from Rochester, about three weeks old, owner ditched 'em on the road," Lommy tells Arya, who looks like she's made the walk down these wire-fence cages a thousand times before. There are no windows. Only the harsh, florescent overhead light. "Golden retriever'd probably be on your list, but he's past the age limit they set over at Direwolf. Also a mutt, I'm guessing German with lab, maybe about three months."

"Any on the kill list?"

Lommy gives her a sad look. "They're _all_ on the kill list. But the mutt's first in line, as always. You can take a look, you know where the keys are. Let me know if one strikes your fancy."

"Thanks, Lommy."

"Sure," he replies, and then he leaves us there.

Arya trails her fingers along the fence wire as she walks down the line. Her hands are still healing from her fall in the godswood, her palms scabbed, and I burn at the memory of her standing so close. I'd had the most absurd desire, just then, to close that distance between us. I get that same feeling now, watching her lean down to let a small, wiry-haired dog sniff at her fingers.

"What is this place?" I ask her.

"It's supposed to be a dog rescue, except they don't act like it. Lommy's the only good one in the place. He and I didn't get on at first, but…" she trails off, shrugging. "All the little stuff seems kind of stupid in here when you think about it."

There are about thirty-five or forty dogs in all, in two neat rows on either side of the aisle. They seem to be treated well, their fur clean and their eyes bright. But they're all a little on the thin side, and the cages are hardly big enough to stand in. The run-down appearance of the building in general speaks to the fact that the rescue isn't doing well financially.

"You come here a lot?" I ask Arya.

"As often as I can," she says, grabbing keys from a rack near the door. "Usually every two or three weeks. Or when I'm having a bad day."

"So what, you…pay Lommy and take the dogs and keep them in your garage?"

She laughs. "The money's for vaccinations, spaying, basic food costs. And no, I don't keep them in my garage. My parents would kill me, though Bran probably wouldn't mind. He loves dogs."

"Well, what do you do with them then?"

"Stick around and you'll find out," she says, and then apparently having found one of Lommy's recommendations, she unlocks the cage and kneels down. It's one of the labs, the color of coffee beans, still small with too-long legs and a black, wet nose. Arya holds out her hand, and the puppy shies away immediately. Arya makes a noise in the back of her throat, as if she's reached a decision based on that tiny movement.

"No good," she says, leaning back on her heels.

"There are criteria for saving dogs?" I ask her.

"Unfortunately, yes," she huffs. "Come on, let's try the sister pup."

She unlocks the cage just next door. "Strike that. Brother pup," she laughs, but a few minutes later she gives up on that one, too. "Here, he's friendly." She picks up the puppy, handing him over to me. "You're not afraid of dogs, right?"

"No," I tell her, scratching the puppy behind the ears. "My friend back in King's Landing had this big Border Collie. His name was Fly." I feel a sudden rush of homesickness, and push it away. I've no earthly reason to miss King's Landing; the few good memories I have there can't even begin to outweigh the bad.

"Your friend with the horse ranch," she says immediately, and I nod, almost shocked that she remembered the little details of our conversation.

"So why isn't this one any good?" I ask her. I look down at the puppy, trying to find fault with it. I mostly come away sad knowing that he's probably not going to ever see the outside of this place.

"Skittish," she says. "Gets distracted by everything."

"It's a puppy," I say, frowning.

"Yeah, but you can tell already. Watch." She snaps her fingers. But the puppy doesn't just _look_ towards the noise, he immediately struggles to get out of my arms. She's already moved further down the row of cages, releasing the German Shepherd mix. The puppy steps out of the cage, but seems perfectly content to let Arya pet his ears. He licks the tips of her fingers, sniffing the air.

"He is a four-eyed dog," Arya tells me, voice reverent. "That means he has magic in him. If you believe in that kind of thing."

At first I'm confused, but then I see the little sand-colored marks above his eyes and realize that she's right: he is four-eyed. He has all the black and brown markings of a shepherd, but I can see where Lommy thinks he might have lab in him.

"What kind of magic?"

"The kind that lets him understand what we say. People say that it's these two eyes that allow certain dogs to see into the minds of people and to comprehend the meaning of their language." For a moment, I almost believe her, until I realize that she's not even taking it seriously herself.

The puppy's actual eyes are sharp, alert, and when Arya smiles faintly I know she's found what she's looking for. She coaxes the him to play with her, wrestling him with her hand for a minute or two, taking his good-natured nips before she draws away, conceding defeat. She laughs as she says, "For what we'd usually do, ideally we'd want a lab or golden retriever, but we've actually had some requests for German Shepherds. This could be a good starting point."

"Starting point for what?"

Arya looks at me, stroking the puppy behind the ears thoughtfully. "We usually do assistance dogs, for people with disabilities, but we also take them to hospitals and college campuses to prevent depression. It's a local not-for-profit, the Direwolf Foundation, started about four years ago. We almost exclusively rescue lab and retriever puppies; they're good for public life because they're so friendly. But the program's doing so well, we've been receiving government requests for German Shepherds."

"What does the government want with dogs?" I ask, confused.

"They use them for military service. The guy who approached us about changing the program told us that one dog is worth about twenty men in Iraq."

"Oh, sure," I say, looking down at the Shepherd puppy, all long legs and perked ears, trying to imagine him in a desert getting shot at. "He looks like a soldier."

She laughs. "Come on, Lommy's shift ends at 4:30, and if we stay here any later they'll charge us more."

* * *

The dog is so damn happy to be outside that it makes me laugh a little. At first Arya tries to hold him, protesting that the salt on the sidewalks will ruin his paws, but he's having none of it. "A few blocks won't hurt," she finally gives in. Then Arya and I shiver out of our skin as we walk along the narrow sidewalk, the small Shepherd walking playfully beside us on his leash. He's sniffing at everything: the trees, the dirt, the leftover snow, the bottom of my worn jeans.

"He should have a name," I tell her.

"He probably should."

"How do you usually choose?" I ask her.

"Bran decides. He's the creative one. Here," she says, pulling out her phone. She snaps a picture of the puppy, I assume sending it to her younger brother for christening.

"Summer," she says, a moment later.

"That's ironic."

There's a quiet moment that passes between us. It's just her and me and the puppy on this sidewalk, and I think about what Syrio said to me earlier in the car. "Why are you doing this?" I ask her.

"I like to help people," she says, shrugging.

"Yeah, but…why this way?"

She looks down at the sidewalk. "It's kind of complicated. A long story." Her voice is closed, tight, and I have to remind myself that we've barely known each other for a few days. She's not obligated to share anything with me. I'm just a stranger to her.

"It's a long walk."

She smiles faintly, as if hearing the disappointment that I've tried and failed to keep out of my voice. "Maybe someday," she says.

I like the sound of someday. Perhaps more than I should.

* * *

**Please Read & Review!**

AN: First things first. DEAN WINCHESTER WATCHES GAME OF THRONES AND SAMMY READS THE BOOKS!

Second things second. I know it's been a while, sorry. I was having a hard time writing this chapter. So then I went through about four versions only to end up back with this heavily edited version of the first one I wrote. But I would have been disappointed in myself if I'd uploaded the original...it was...really not good...I had writer's block so bad I can't even tell you guys. On the plus side I gave you puppy cuteness?

Third things third. To Momoka: You're not going to believe this, but I saw your review just as I was going online for this chapter and I just kind of laughed sadistically as I considered waiting until tomorrow to post it. ;)


	9. Chapter 8: Juvenile Delinquents

There's something familiar about being under the hood of a car. Dirty, and demanding, but familiar. I've found that it's a rarity at Mott's Auto Service. People don't bring their cars here to get fixed. They bring them here to get destroyed.

The owner, Tobho Mott, is in denial about his arthritis. But his patrons aren't. The auto shop a few miles up the road is in better shape, and they get the job done faster. So despite Mott's long history in Winterfell, most people who can afford it head over to the generically named AutoCare. They only bring a car to Mott's when it's beyond salvaging, or when they're willing to wait three weeks to get it back.

When I'd come in asking about work, Mott had looked surprised that anyone had actually noticed the crappy 'Help Wanted' sign he'd posted in the window, as though he'd put it up half-hoping no one would apply for the job. Unfortunately for him, I'd gotten tired of living off of Lannister charity. I'd accumulated more Banana Republic sweaters from Jaime Lannister than I knew how to deal with, and I missed cheap, comfortable clothes that didn't stink of obligation and organic cotton. The simple solution was to get a job.

Tob pays me twelve dollars an hour to tear apart damaged cars and sell them for scrap. It's not a lot, and it's nowhere near what I need. In fact, my bank account is dwindling rapidly with each college application I drop in the mailbox. But I don't care. This is something I can do, something that I'm in control of.

There's a not a lot that I have control over these days.

* * *

I slip through the side door, grateful to be out of the wind, and kick off my shoes in the Lannister's garage, ignoring the sudden urge to leave dirty bootprints all over Joffrey's pristine car. I peel off my soaked coat and the oil-stained shirt beneath it. The first time I'd come home from work, stained with oil and sweat and dirt, Cersei's pupils had dilated dangerously. She'd made it quite explicit that if I ever dragged dirt into her house again my new roommate would be the Lexus.

So I chuck my clothes into the washer on the way in, throwing in detergent and and some Oxyclean. I decide that my jeans are clean enough- well, clean by the universal standards of teenage guys- and I leave them on. The kitchen, laundry room, and garage are all towards one end of the house. In the old days, it kept the servants separate from the main house, the grunt work preformed out of sight. A narrow hallway connects the laundry room to the kitchen, which has been renovated into a modern masterpiece for the culinary arts. The Lannister's latest in a long line of hired help, Shae, sits on the island in the center of the kitchen, wearing a white apron over a standard black uniform. Cersei calls the girls she hires "personal assistants", and inevitably finds some minute fault in them that warrants their abrupt dismissal.

"Evening," Shae says. If she finds my lack of attire unusual, she doesn't say so. Her eyes flicker smoothly back to the German novel resting on her slender thighs.

"Something smells amazing," I say. A rich, savory scent fills the kitchen. It's late, the clock on the wall reads 9:30, and my muscles protest from the day's work.

"There are leftovers in the fridge," she tells me. "And you might as well make yourself comfortable, because you won't be walking through the house looking like that."

"What's wrong with the way I look?" I ask, winking at her. Of all the people in this house, Shae is probably my favorite. She's only been here for four days, and I know a total of two things about her. The first is that she doesn't give a crap about what anyone thinks of her, and I can support that. The second is that she used to be a call girl (a fact that Cersei is blissfully unaware of), so my relative lack of clothing is likely making me much more uncomfortable than it is making her. "I wear clothes, people are unhappy. I don't wear clothes…"

"Actually, I quite appreciate your state of undress," she says directly, her German accent apparent. "But I'm not sure the DAR fundraising committee will."

I slam the fridge door shut. "You're kidding. The DAR's here?"

She rolls her eyes. "Yes, and if I have to listen to them discussing which of the unattached prepubescent teenage boys will escort their equally immature and stupid female companions to the Annual Winterfell Debutante Ball for much longer, I think my ears will start bleeding." She turns the page of her novel bemusedly, pushing her dark, curly hair out of her eyes.

I immediately realize that the only way to get from the kitchen to my bedroom is through the living room. A living room that is apparently occupied by various members of Winterfell's elite engaged in a discussion about the proper way to present their daughters to society. I curse internally, wishing I hadn't put my clothes in the wash. Now I'm stuck in the kitchen until my clothes dry, or until the DAR meeting loses steam. And given the fact that DAR has persevered for a hundred and twenty years now, neither alternative seems likely to occur in the near future.

I resign myself to a long wait, grabbing a plate and silverware from the cabinets. I heat up the meal- some sort of eggplant dish over pasta- and throw myself down at the table. "Okay, tell me."

Shae hops down from the counter to sit across from me.

"Sansa Stark is to be escorted by Joffrey, of course," she says primly, as if reciting from the society section of the Winterfell Weekly. "Cersei bragged about the design of Sansa's dress, it's imported from Italy. Then the ladies spent ten minutes cooing over Sansa when she sweetly reminded them that the focus of the ball should be on fundraising, not fashion."

"Community service…the core of DAR values," I laugh.

"And everyone was shocked to hear that Yara Greyjoy had decided to attend _without_ an escort- god forbid she should escort herself- and then they all remarked about what a shame it is that Daenerys Targaryen wouldn't agree to be escorted by Jorah Mormont. Apparently she's dating the captain of the football team, even though no one else seems to approve of him."

"Which only proves that Dany has better taste than they do. Because her boyfriend is awesome. Especially when drunk."

Shae laughs, a genuine smile crossing her features, and I'm surprised someone with her sense of humor has lasted this long at the Lannister's. "Margaery Tyrell's mother arranged for her to be escorted by Renly Baratheon. And once the name Baratheon was mentioned they gossiped about you for half an hour."

"Anything interesting?" I ask offhandedly.

"Good or bad first?"

"Get it over with."

"The usual. Cersei went on about how she would never cast you out because of the sins of your father, and it might have slipped out that the only other possible place for you to have gone was a foster home. So then they praised her for her unwavering selflessness in taking in her ex-husband's illegitimate child, especially after how he treated her, and they all said they never could have done such a thing themselves. Especially considering that you consort with juvenile delinquents like Sandor Clegane."

"Juvenile delinquent?" I snort. "I'm going to tell him they said that. He'll be so flattered."

"It's not funny, Gendry," she says, forehead wrinkling with apprehension, dark eyebrows coming together like a raven's wings. "Appearances are everything here. You have to learn how to play the game."

"I'm not even on the chess board," I laugh. "The less I see of Winterfell high society, the happier Cersei is. And for that matter, the happier I am."

"Don't be so sure," she says quietly, not looking at me.

I let my fork clatter to the table noisily, and lean back in my chair to look at her. "Shae Sobel. What do you know that you aren't telling me?"

"Syrio Forel might have been at tonight's meeting," she says reluctantly.

I act surprised. "I didn't know Forel was a Daughter of the American Revolution. I'm kind of impressed, actually."

"It's a ball. They need a choreographer, idiot."

"I don't see how Forel being involved makes a difference."

"He made Cersei look very bad. She'd made you out to be some sort of charity case, a messed up kid with a rough background who was nothing but trouble. She blamed Robert, of course, but kept saying how a stable home environment was sure to…how did she put it…'turn Gendry around'? She was just trying to build herself up in the eyes of the other women. But then Forel interrupted her…I mean, actually interrupted her. In the middle of her sentence. Smooth as can be, he says, 'Excuse me, Cersei, but in the short time he's been in Winterfell, I've come to know Gendry quite well, and I've found him to be an intelligent, hardworking individual who has nothing in common with Robert'."

At those words, I feel an unfamiliar tightness at the back of my throat, and suddenly I'm twelve years old in a Perkins booth. Instead of Shae, it's Jack Kennedy sitting across from me, and that hint of a memory tackles me, almost knocking the wind out of me. It's not often that I am on the receiving end of kind words.

"You okay?" Shae asks gently. She's too observant, but I appreciate her concern.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine."

"Well, let's just say Cersei had to backpedal quickly. And one thing led to another and…well…you've been invited."

"Invited?"

"To the Annual Winterfell Debutante Ball."

I snort. "You're hilarious, Shae. You should host a radio show."

Shae doesn't laugh.

"God damn it," I curse.

* * *

When I finish eating, I do the dishes in exchange for Shae's drunken relationship advice. I tell her about Arya. I tell her about how she comes by Mott's Auto Service every day at 5:30 when she's done volunteering at Direwolf, coffee in hand. I tell her about our stolen conversations over my break, about how those fifteen minutes have become the most valuable fifteen minutes of my day.

"I'm serious," Shae says, when I laugh at her suggestion that I just kiss Arya and get it over with. "At least them you wouldn't be able to sit around here feeling sorry for yourself."

"I don't feel sorry for myself."

"No?" she says, tilting her head to the side. "It's eleven o'clock on a Friday night, and all you've done is work and laundry and talk to the half-drunk house maid. You're a pathetic excuse for a teenager. Even I feel sorry for you."

"That's not really fair," I say, rinsing my plate. "I did insult my legal guardians behind their backs today, so that should count for something."

"Come on, Gendry. Live a little."

"It doesn't matter," I say, more for my own benefit than Shae's. "Arya and I are just friends."

"Yes. And Cersei and Jaime are just siblings."

"Okay, one, that's disgusting, and two, I think you've officially had enough to drink now," I tell her. "So I'll take that."

She downs what's left of her wine in one go, and hands it to me. "I like that you do your own dishes, Gendry Waters."

I go still, my hands slick with dish soap. "Wait…Cersei pays you to do_ dishes_?" I ask, feigning surprise. "Well, forget this then." I chuck the dishcloth at her, and she catches it, her face wrinkling up unattractively.

"You're not as funny as you think you are," Shae says, throwing it back in my face.

Then I feel my phone vibrate it my back pocket. "Crap," I say, trying to pull it out without getting soap on it. Shae laughs, and without hesitation reaches into my back pocket and holds up the phone, smiling widely.

"Trying to decide if that was cute or awkward," I laugh uncomfortably.

"A little awkward," she shrugs, and presses the cell to my ear. I hold it there with my shoulder.

"Hey, Sandor, can I call you back?" I say.

"No!" I hear him say urgently. "I swear to god if you hang up on me, the next time I see you I will kick your sorry ass, you know I can. I need you to do something for me."

"No."

"You don't know what it is yet."

"I don't care. I'm not dressed and I don't want to go anywhere right now and I'm pretty sure you just threatened me."

"It's important."

"Tough. I'm trapped half-nude in my kitchen with nothing but drywall and insulation between me and a bunch of impressionable teenage girls and their mothers."

"Which half?" laughs Sandor.

"Does it matter?"

"Nope, just a little platonic curiosity amongst friends."

"What do you want, Sandor?" I ask, shaking my head in exasperation and nearly dropping the phone.

"I need you to steal Joffrey's car and come pick me up."

"What happened to your car?"

"I notice that you are not saying no to stealing Joffrey's car," Sandor says hopefully.

"Sandor. What happened to your car?"

"It's fine. I just can't get to it right now."

"Why not? Where are you?'

There's a moment of silence on the other end of the line, and I can hear a strange, busy sort of background noise. It's the sound of an office, or a hospital, or…

"Sandor?" I repeat. "Where are you?"

"In jail, okay? I'm in fucking jail."

There's a moment of silence in which I expect Sandor to elaborate. He doesn't. "Is this your one phone call?"

"Yes."

"I can't believe I'm your one phone call. Hang on, I need a moment to pull myself together…I'm tearing up a little…"

"Would you just shut up and get down here?"

* * *

**Please Read & Review!**

AN: Sorry. Just sorry. I know it's been forever. I was doing so well, and then thesis stuff hit. Two weeks until break, and then I'll be updating more frequently, I swear.


	10. Chapter 9: Excuses

The light from the windows of Casterly drive spills out over the lawn. My mother is in there, with my sister, and the other respectable women of Winterfell, worrying over things that I could care less about. I think about honking, but I realize that would draw their attention…and that wouldn't be good for Gendry, or for me.

I've told my mother that I have too much homework to attend the DAR meeting tonight. Instead, I'm twenty yards away, about to sneak Gendry Waters out of his house so that he can pick up his possibly criminal best friend. I try to think about how I would justify any of this to my mother, and come up empty. I just pray to the gods that my dad won't mention any of this to her.

Another yellow light pierces the darkness as the side door of the stone house opens, and I see Gendry's long shadow on the ground before he closes it.

As he walks towards me in the dim light of the street, I realize that I'll never really get over the fact that Gendry looks like a different person in the clothes the Lannisters buy for him. Gone are the ripped jeans and old leather jacket, and part of me misses them. He was stubborn about it for a long time, freezing out of his skin for two weeks before he gave in and tore the tags off the black, pristine winter coat he now wears. I'd decided immediately not to tell Gendry that Sansa was able to identify the brand of the coat on sight, because I'd been fairly certain that if he'd known that Jaime Lannister had dropped a thousand dollars on a single item of clothing, he wouldn't have worn it on principle. In my opinion, Gendry is being completely impractical by not taking advantage of the Lannister's bottomless bank account, but his bullheaded pride is inseparable from all the other things I like about him.

And to be honest, he looks good in it, the dark, heavy material of the coat framing his broad shoulders and bringing out the blue in his eyes. As he walks the twenty feet from the Lannister's side door to my car, I try not to think about the fact that he's not wearing a shirt beneath it. I think about making a laundry day joke as he opens the door, but my throat is too dry.

"Thanks," he says, ducking his head as he climbs into the car and shaking snow from his hair. "Really, you didn't have to come and get me-"

"I wanted to," I tell him, without hesitating. But part of me feels guilty, because I know that this is all just an excuse-

_An excuse for what? _

I stop by Mott's Auto Service everyday. The excuse then is coffee.

_An excuse for what?_

Gendry calls and I answer. The excuse tonight is that he needs to get from point A to point B.

_An excuse for _**_what_**?

-and I try to ignore the smell of him, the scent of oil and rust. I convince myself that I don't notice the black under his nails, the wetness of his eyelashes, the chapped skin of his lips. I keep my hands on the wheel, clenched tight. The road stretches out before us, and in the quietness I can hear his soft, controlled breathing. There's a flash of whiteness at his neck, illuminated by the otherworldly light of the street lamps, and his dark hair clings to the bare skin there. I have to force words out of my raw throat.

"So. What's Sandor in for?"

"I don't know."

"Oh, come on. I won't tell anyone."

"No, really. I've got no idea."

"You didn't ask?" I say skeptically.

"I didn't need to," he replies simply. I am suddenly overwhelmed by the simplicity of his statement, by his loyalty to his friend. I realize that Gendry is, in many ways, a very straightforward person. He'll stand by the people he cares about, even when they might not deserve it.

I want to know what it's like to be on the receiving end of that kind of loyalty.

* * *

Gendry holds the door of the station open for me, and I don't tell him not to. Because it's not done out of obligation, or because he thinks I'm incapable. He does it as if its the most natural thing in the world, for him to wait for me, for me to lead and for him to let me.

This time, at least.

My throat is still dry when I ask the Amy, the receptionist, if my Dad's there. The station is dead…it's well past midnight now, and the only other person in the waiting area is a sixty-something year old woman with silver hair in a severe bun, and fancy, expensive clothing. She's trying to fall asleep in her chair, and shoots us a dirty look when our conversation with Amy continues.

"He's in his office, but he's with someone. You can wait in the back with the guys-" she starts to offer. She knows as well as I do that this place is like a second home to me. It's where I go when the house is too crowded. When I was little, my dad would take me here whenever my mother had social obligations, and Winterfell's finest would teach me to play blackjack and make me late-night mac and cheese. I'm practically an honorary member of the police department; everyone here has known me since I was eleven. They've attended my school plays and dance recitals, made me soup when I'm sick, given me hell whenever I slack on my homework and bring home subpar grades.

But tonight, we're here for Sandor.

"No, that's okay," I say. "Better do this like regular citizens."

Amy laughs. "Alright. Well, if you're hot, you can leave your coats on the rack. We've cranked the heat up out here, per the request of…well…" Her eyes flicker to the crochety old lady. "Apparently she's the Clegane's lawyer? She hasn't done much except complain and refuse to pay his bail, to be honest."

"It _is_ a little warm in here," I say, slipping out of my coat and hanging it up. I look at Gendry expectantly, knowing full well that his shirt is in the Lannister's drying machine back at Casterly, and then I ask with no small amount of amusement, "Want me to hang yours up for you?"

He smiles a little, clearing his throat. "That's all right. I'm fine."

"You sure?" I ask, having to bite my tongue to keep myself from laughing. He gives me a dirty look, but I decide that tonight I'm going to push him a little. "Might be a while. My dad's got to fill out the paperwork and all."

"I'm really fine," he insists uncomfortably, his eyes flickering to the sign behind Amy's head: _Shirt and shoes required in all Winterfell Police Department facilities._

He shakes his head at me as we sit down, and I try to stifle a laugh behind my hand.

"You're _mean_," he whispers, but his lips quirk up a little at the edges and I know he's not actually mad.

* * *

"Why aren't _you_ at the DAR meeting?" Gendry asks me. The short hand of the clock is slowly inching towards the roman numeral one on it's face, and I hear the faint tick of the second hand. My head rests against his thigh as I stretch out over the station's hard benches. It's impossible to get comfortable, but I'm so tired. My eyelids are heavy, and my voice is going soft.

"Sansa's the one who's being presented to society, not me," I reply, frowning. I'll have to deal with all of that next year, when I graduate. It's an unpleasant thought, but I know I'll go through with it. For my parents, for my brothers. To make them happy.

"But you'll be there, right?" he presses.

"Yeah. I mean, I have to be in attendance. For Sansa. It's…you know…expected." _Sansa._ Right now she's with my mother at Casterly Rock…no. It's almost one in the morning. They're probably on their way home by now.

I look up at him, and I catch a faint smile on his lips. "I suppose you do," he says. I wonder if he's somehow disappointed that I'll be there.

"You're just lucky you don't have to go to that sort of thing," I mutter grudgingly, elbowing him gently in the ribs.

"Wrong," he says, and I look back up, surprised.

"What in the name of the old gods did you do to deserve that?" I ask.

"Apparently your mother invited me." He shrugs.

"I'm sorry. God, I'm really so, so sorry," I laugh.

"It can't be that bad," he says, as if he's trying to convince himself.

"It really can," I deadpan. There's a moment where my mind wanders, back to Sansa. I think about how she's immersed herself in planning this debutante ball, how she and Margaery are consumed by dresses and shoes and perfume and hairstyles. I think about how it's all a masquerade, a cover-up for how her deteriorating relationship with Joffrey, and there's nothing I can do about it.

A few quiet moments pass between us. His large, scarred hand rests on my stomach, as if to reassure himself that I'm still there, even though his blue eyes are somewhere else. He looks as lost in thought as I am. I want to follow him, but at the same time I selfishly want to bring him back to me.

"Can I ask you something?" I say quietly, trying to think about how I can get some of this off my chest without betraying my own sister's confidence.

"Anything," he murmurs.

"Do you think it's possible to help someone if they don't want help?"

Gendry goes still. Then, as if it's the most natural thing in the world, his fingers of his right hand brush across my forehead, his thumb sweeping over my hair thoughtfully. His eyes continue to stare at the wall, considering. "No," he says finally. "No, I don't think so."

Maybe it's because I'm tired, or maybe it's because the deep cadence of his voice makes me feel small and out of control, but suddenly there is a heat behind my eyes and I realize that I'm close to tears. Fortunately, he's not looking at me, and he keeps going.

"I thought, for a long time, that I could help him. My father. He'd make promises…that he'd get sober, get a job, pay the bills…It was a long time before I realized that he had a sickness. Maybe it was grief. Or regret. He'd drink to forget, even though it only made everything worse. But even though it hurt him, he'd always go back. Again and again and-"

He stops suddenly. "I don't know why I said that."

"It's okay," I whisper.

"I only meant that…" He bring his hand to his eyes, putting pressure on them. "I only meant that people have a tendency to go back to precisely the things that are bad for them. To love the things that hurt them?"

"Or the people…" I say, thinking of Sansa and Joffrey.

"Yes. But people are even more difficult. You can give up things easier than you can give up on people."

_He's talking about Robert again. _

"People can change," I tell him.

"Not unless they want to. Like I said…they have to want to help themselves." He smiles sadly. "Are you tired?"

"No," I half-lie, because the tick of the clock on the wall and the unnatural florescent lights have magnified the heaviness of my eyelids. "I'm awake."

Because the other half of me is alive with the feeling of his calloused hand in my hair, with the rough material of his jeans against the back of my neck, with the hum of his voice that I feel in my bones. I tell myself that the thrill I feel when he speaks doesn't mean anything. That I trust him because we're friends, and not because I know more about him from fifteen minute conversations in a dirty auto shop than I do about any other person in my life. That the deep ache in my stomach is loneliness, not love, and that the rawness in my throat is from the cold, not craving.

But I know that it's all just an excuse.

**_An excuse for what?_** I think to myself. **_Why am I doing any of this?_**

He runs his thumb over the crease in my forehead, and I know the answer.

For this. For fifteen minutes of being with him.

* * *

_**Please read & review!**_

AN: I'm starting to frustrate myself with this slow burn romance. All I'm gonna say is: the. next. chapter.

This is where I need an editor, because I just don't have the time to do it myself. Sorry for any mistakes, and for the experimental writing in section one. Not sure if people like that kind of harsh break in the narrative? I'm reading "S" at the moment and I thought I'd try something new.


	11. Chapter 10: Fire and Ice

"I was beginning to think you weren't coming," Sandor laughs, leaning forward against the bars of his cell. He's dressed in his typical black, and his laugh is normal, but something's off about him tonight. There are dark shadows under his eyes, and he licks his lips nervously, his eyes flickering to the officer behind me. The silver-haired lawyer from the waiting room purses her thin, wrinkly lips, watching the three of us like an overgrown bird of prey.

"Well, it took forever for them to process your paperwork. I just gotta talk to Ned Stark about bail money, and then we should be able to get you out of here," I reply, my nose wrinkling as I get closer to him. He smells like a ashtray. "Have you been _smoking_?"

The officer laughs as though I've said something hilarious, and when I turn around to look at him I notice that even the lawyer's pursed lips are drawn back over her unnaturally white teeth in a forced smile. I shoot Sandor a look. _What the hell?_

"Uh…no, not exactly," Sandor says, and I get the sense that he's deflecting the question altogether. "Look, I'll pay you back the bail money. I mean…when I have it. I'll pay you back."

"Damn right you will," I tell him. On the drive here, I was certain that this was all a misunderstanding. I'd practically told Arya as much. But now, Sandor's eyes avoid mine, and the conversation that Arya and I just had in the reception room pricks at the back of my mind. I wonder if my habit of caring about people who are bad for me is about to bite me in the ass.

"I'm sorry about…you know. Calling in the middle of the night," he says, and even though his voice sounds sincere I try not to let the words effect me. It doesn't work very well. "I wouldn't have blamed you if you hadn't shown up…and I really didn't mean to cause any trouble with the Lannisters and all…"

"We'll worry about it later," I say, but his words don't make me any less uneasy. "Besides, I wasn't actually going to steal…" My eyes flicker to the officer beside me. "Um, I mean, Arya gave me a ride, so no worries."

There's a sharp rap on the door. It's the receptionist. "Cheif Stark's free."

"Good," says the Clegane's lawyer, straightening her back and squaring her shoulders. "I've got a few questions to raise with him. About the circumstances surrounding the arrest, for instance-"

"Actually, I wasn't talking to you," the receptionist replies cooly, turning her warm brown eyes towards me. "Cheif of Police Stark will see Mr. Waters now, if he's ready."

"Oh…yeah, sure," I say, slightly thrown by the fact that she's addressed me as 'Mr. Waters'. She motions for me to follow her out the door.

"Just about had enough of that damn woman," the receptionist huffs as the door slams shut behind us, flicking her braided hair over her shoulder. "If I had a dollar for every time I had to put up with her…" She clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth.

"I take it this isn't the first time Sandor's been arrested?" I ask.

She snorts. "No. But it was only a matter of time, considering."

"Considering what?"

She squints at me, her dark skin crinkling at the corners of her eyes. "His brother. Who else would I be-?"

"That's enough, Amy," a rough voice cuts in from behind us. I recognize its owner immediately, though I've never seen him in person before. Unlike my father, Chief of Police Stark still looks like himself, like the twenty-five year old man I've seen in pictures. He still has the rough, chiseled face and hands of a soldier, and he hasn't let himself go like my father had. Robert Baratheon had grown sluggish and fat, but Ned Stark's gray eyes are sharp and he stands straight as an oak tree.

"Mr. Waters, why don't you come with me," he says, and then his rough hand clasps my shoulder and I'm being steered into his office. "Have a seat," he says directly, closing the door, and I'm not sure if its impatience or tiredness or something else that clips his words. I can't help but stare. He's dressed in a navy police uniform, his face is solemn, and there's gray creeping into his hair.

He waits for me to sit in one of the boring office chairs before he follows suit, fishing out a file from his desk drawer and tossing it in front of him. "Now. First things first. Is that my daughter I saw crashed on one of the waiting room benches?"

"Yes," I say simply.

"She drove you here?"

"I don't have a car, sir."

"It's going on two in the morning," Stark says, and his gray eyes are like fog. I can't see anything in them.

"Yes, it is, sir. So if we get this over quickly, we can all just go home." I bite my tongue. I don't respond well to challenges, and apparently neither does Stark, because his eyes turn to stone.

"Fortunately for you, the bail has been dropped to just over a thousand dollars," he says, opening the file. "Mr. Clegane's parents refuse to pay this money despite the fact that we've lowered the amount of the bail to a ridiculously low price, which they are well able to afford. I believe they are hoping that if they show resistance, the victim of the crime, one Mr. Christopher Hartnell, will drop the charges and we'll be forced to release him. There was only minor damage, so it might be more costly for him to make a fuss than to take Mr. Clegane to court."

"And what is the alleged crime?"

Ned Stark looks up at me, pausing. "You came here without knowing why Mr. Clegane had been arrested?"

"He's my friend," I say, bristling. "But I'd still like to know why I'm shelling out a thousand dollars." _Money that you don't even have_, I remind myself. _The overdrawn fees are going to be ridiculous. I should make Sandor pay for that, too._

"The alleged crime is arson."

I snort, amused. "That can't be right."

"What makes you say that?" Stark asks me. His voice is curious, and I remind myself that sternness and justice are often complimentary traits.

"Sandor's has arsonphobia. He wouldn't even touch a lighter," I insist.

"Yes, I'm aware," Stark replies, as if he himself is frustrated by the glaring inconsistencies surrounding Sandor's arrest.

"So you don't think he did it?" I ask.

"No, I do not. I'm perfectly aware that Sandor Clegane did _not_ set Mr. Hartnell's house on fire. But he has confessed, and he was the only one found at the crime scene, and Mr. Hartnell has pressed charges, so as Chief of Police I have to ensure that he'll arrive at court on the date here." He places a paper in front of me, and circles Sandor's trial date with a blue pen.

"Who do you think set the fire?" I press, and I'm surprised when he actually answers.

"Gregor. Sandor's brother. We've had problems with him before. He's clever, though, and he manipulates people. I can't say how he convinced Sandor to take the fall for him, but…" Stark shakes his head. "I can't say I fault the kid. We do stupidly honorable things for family sometimes."

I wonder if he's talking about Sandor, or himself. Or me.

"Yeah, sometimes we do."

"Regardless, he'll need someone to post bail. Must be paid in cash or check."

He waits patiently as I pull out my checkbook, and consult the paperwork before me once more before I write out the amount of 'one-thousand two-hundred and forty' in neat print on the check. Stark must see my hesitation before I sign it, because when I hand it to him, he says, "I'll just…hold on to this for a few days before I cash it, shall I?"

I stare for a moment, stunned at that small act of generosity when his entire demeanor is like ice. "I…thanks. That would be-"

"Don't mention it," Stark says, and I wonder if I've mistaken standard processing time for kindness. "Now, why don't you have Arya drive you home. There's school in the morning."

"Yeah, right. And about Arya, it…won't happen again," I say, and I curse myself immediately. I don't have to apologize to Arya's father. She makes her own decisions, and I haven't done anything wrong. Yet. But I still stand there feeling guilty, thinking about my hand in her hair and the warm skin of her neck on my thigh. I swallow hard.

Chief Stark nods, and I take that as a cue to leave. My shoes feel heavy as I turn away.

"Mr. Waters," he says suddenly.

"Yeah?" I say, turning in the doorway. I expect a warning, or some sort of lecture. A grim look passes over Stark's already solemn face, and he looks at me with some mixture of sadness, and no small amount of pity. His lips part indecisively, as if he's not sure whether he should speak.

"I'm sorry. About your father," he says quietly. He's staring at me like he's seen a ghost, and I see that horrible flicker of recognition in his eyes. Because I look like him, like Robert. "He was a…good friend."

I'd heard that line a thousand times. From friends, and teachers, and people I didn't even know. Not one of them had actually sounded sorry. Their lips moved, but there was no grief in their eyes. It had always seemed so absurd to me, that people should pretend to love people only after their gone. My father was constantly drunk, a womanizer and an asshole. I'd never pretended that I was sorry he'd died, so why should anyone else? Faced with the sincerity in Ned Stark's voice, I'm not sure how to respond, standing frozen in the doorway of his office.

I think that he might be the only person on earth who actually misses my father, and that thought plagues me even after I manage to nod wordlessly. It stays with me as I shake Arya awake, and rings in my ears as I watch the police station disappear in her rear view mirror.

* * *

It's just us now. Her car is idling just outside the Lannister's house, and the windows of Casterly Drive are dark now. I can see her profile in the pale light of the morning- the touch of pink and gold on her eyelashes, her cheekbones, her lips. She reaches for the keys, and the hum of the engine dies. "I don't want to go home," she whispers.

_I don't want to go home, either_, I think. Instead, I tell her simply, "I don't think your father likes me."

"My dad seems cold, sometimes," she replies, and I can hear the exhaustion coloring her voice. "But he's not really."

I shake my head, trying to find the words to express how much Ned Stark's parting words had messed me up. I feel horrible, a deep disappointment settling in my chest, and I wish not for the first time that I didn't remind people so much of my father. "I don't think so," I say carefully.

"That bothers you? That he might not like you?"

I breathe out heavily, because she doesn't _get it_. "Of course it bothers me."

"It's not like my dad has to like you," she laughs, and she can't know how much those words feel like a knife twisting in my gut. I _want _her father to like me, because I know that if there's a moral center of the universe, her father is on the planet that it's closest to. Because I know that family is important to her. And because I know implicitly that Arya Stark trusts her father's judgement more than she trusts anyone else's.

I tell her quietly, "Yes, he does."

"Why?" she asks, confused.

"Because I don't have a shot in hell with you if he doesn't."

I have her attention now. Her charcoal eyes go wide.

"A shot at what?" she asks, and that frustrates the hell out of me.

I'm not sure if I breathe out her name before I kiss her. I think I do, and I think I might have said it out of exasperation, but it gets lost in the feeling of her lips against mine, of her hand dragging through my hair as though she's been waiting for me to do this since she uttered those first words- _it's backwards, you know_- and god knows I've been waiting just as long.

"Is this okay?" I murmur as I draw away, pressing kisses to her jawline. I can't help but drag my hand along her ribcage to feel where it expands and collapses as her breath hitches in her throat.

"Don't ask stupid questions," she commands, and I don't miss the fierce, golden light that has taken up residence in her eyes. She kisses me this time, and it's harsh and reassuring and intimate all at the same time. I don't know how long we stay like that. It's not until she shivers that I realize that her lips are cold against mine and there's frost starting to creep up on the edges of the windshield.

I pull away reluctantly. "I have work in a few hours."

"Exactly," she whispers. "_Hours._"

I can't help myself. I kiss her once more, lightly. "I'll see you there?"

She smiles, and suddenly the prospect of a few hours without her seems impossible. "If you're lucky."

* * *

**Please Read & Review!**

AN: Two new chapters in one day (consider that + the gendrya kiss your holiday present)! Updates are going to come much more frequently in January, since I don't have class. Hopefully the readers haven't lost all interest in this story? I know it's been a while since I wrote anything for it... That said, I'd like to thank all the story followers! I love reviews, but it means a lot that people are tracking this story even though I hadn't been updating a lot towards the end of the last semester. x


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